


All Creation

by Revidescent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel True Forms, Castiel (Supernatural)'s True Form, Communication is hard, Episode: s05e04 The End, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Gen, Humanity as a Second Language, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revidescent/pseuds/Revidescent
Summary: Castiel gave himself to this, to them; humanity in all its arcane rules and irrational compassion.  It’s right, he tells himself.  These are his Father’s most precious creations, and this is where he owes his service, not to a Heaven that sees them only as pawns and savages.  But he is a being of breadth and age, and men view so narrowly.  The end of their world against the life of one monster.  The end of one child against the death of an ancient.There is meaning in it, he’s sure.  But he knows, with all the certainty his grace can muster, that he will never understand.If only he could understand.(In the aftermath of Stull, Castiel follows the road.)





	All Creation

_For we are metaphors in our own right,_  
_Repeating patterns,_  
_Living as representations  
_ _Of what’s grander, vaster, free_

_And we shall bathe the stars in our own light,_  
_Safe in our knowledge_  
_That whatever tears us down  
_ _Some truth will rise from this debris_

 

**1\. CECI N’EST PAS UNE PIPE**

 

“It’s a translation."  The tips of his vessel’s fingers trace the ashen mass, the scorched black shape of wings. “Our true forms are neither humanoid nor avian, but the sudden release of celestial energy needs to leave its mark.  It’s shaped by mortal perception.”  Castiel is answering an unasked question, but this is what humans do in moments of discomfort; they fill the silence however they can. 

Dean grips the angel's shoulder from behind and roughly yanks him upwards, turns him.  It’s unusual, Castiel thinks, to allow himself to be handled like this.  It’s not as though Dean doesn’t understand what an angel is capable of, he simply doesn’t care.  He observes the man's heart rate, adrenaline flooding through him from more than just the recently-concluded fight.  And then there are the cues he knows he should be reading; Dean's knit brow and the stubborn set of his jaw.

“Hey!  You gonna play Mr. Wizard all night, or are we gonna talk about this?”  The anger’s coming off Dean in waves as he gestures stiffly towards the body on the floor, all wide eyes and fierce words.

_About this._   Strange how beings so limited in their communication still insist on being so deliberately vague.  It isn’t as though Castiel cannot speak in abstraction; abstraction is his native tongue, but it is not a language that he shares with his companions.  Instead, he's forced to use these clumsy terms, in all their manifold meanings and misunderstandings, and the language of the body, which he may never master.  “Talk about what, specifically?"

"It's a kid, Cas.  You killed a kid."

The vessel is young, true.  Six years old when he was taken, unaged since then, dressed neatly in a small vest and pressed trousers.  The shirt, once crisp white, is now stained with blood.  Not all of it is the vessel's own.

And this is a tragedy.  Castiel can see this in the brothers' faces, and has seen it before, but still has yet to grasp the arbitrary nature of human outrage.  Where does the line lie?  What number of years is deemed an acceptable lifetime?  A human soul, whatever the age, spends more time dead than alive, their fleeting lives serving largely to cast the shape of their heaven or their hell.  What of the angel, who had seen the birth of time, countless ages, the rise and fall of civilizations, the erosion of mountains to sand?

Human language is messy.  He understands well enough that the Winchesters would find it callous if he said – this mortal walked the Earth for not even seven years, a brief life even by human standards, but no human life is any less brief when weighed against the lives of angels.  That human morality is irrational, the worth of life fluctuating by a thousand unknowable rules, age and proximity and knowledge of the dead.  That there are millions of dead children they will never grieve.

"I killed an angel," is what he says, perhaps more irately than he intends.  If they notice the inflection, they show no sign.  They so rarely do.

"An angel walking around in a kid's meatsuit, yeah."  Dean scowls, drumming one finger against the barrel of his gun.  "Bet the celestial dickbag asked real nicely, too.  Dammit, don't they have, I don't know, some sorta angelic, like... age of consent?  Rules?  You gotta know this ain’t right." 

“That was my brother, Dean, and I killed him to _save you_.   _Again._  If you’re incapable of gratitude, at least show me some respect.”  He tries to hold Dean's eyes, a desperate attempt to bridge an infinite gap.  He is beginning to understand how impossible this communication is.  Even the simplest words create a gulf between them – words like _home_ and _father_ and _brother_ are not, to the Winchesters, what they are to Castiel.

Sam displays none of the same rage, just the helpless freefall of grief.  He crouches down, folding himself into a smaller shape that nonetheless dwarfs the crumpled body on the warehouse floor.  “There was no way he knew,” Sam says softly.  “I know angels need permission, but he can’t have understood what he was agreeing to, not really.”  He reaches over to close the vessel’s eyes, his hand large enough to enclose the child’s entire head if he wished.  “I wonder what his family thinks happened to him.  Don’t know if it’s better to put the kid somewhere he’ll be found, or just let them keep on hoping he’ll come back.”

“Found,” says Dean with iron in his voice.  He’s got his back to both of them now, and Castiel finds himself trying to read the slant of his shoulders, the tension in his stance.  “It’s better to know.”

Sam nods slowly.  “Once we’re cleared out of here, I’ll call in a tip.  Maybe move him away from the, uh, wing marks first.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”  Dean glances back at Castiel, not Sam, unrelenting in his distaste.

“You’re upset with me,” says Castiel.

“Oh, yeah, you think?  And don’t pull your _I don’t understand your human ways_  crap, you may not be human but I know you ain’t stupid." 

“Then what would you have had me do?  We were ambushed.  If he had incapacitated me, he’d have taken you straight to Zachariah." 

“At least act like you give a shit, Cas.  We’re the good guys, right?  The good guys, they don’t kill kids."

“I understand,” he lies, thinking of lambs' blood on doorways and the wailing of a thousand mothers.  Heaven has never shied away from sacrifice.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”  That, at least, is honest, and he tries to school his tone to say so.

Sam stands.  “Who was he?  The angel?"

“Leliel."   Another translation, much like his own name, forced crudely into one dimension in a narrow band of sound.  He wishes he could speak his brother’s true name, with all its secret corners and unlikely frequencies, but not even his own vessel could withstand such a thing.  “A good soldier, and exceptionally loyal even by our measure.  I did not know him well, but…”  Once again, there are no words.  There’s a strange urge to reach out towards the body, but nothing of Castiel’s brother remains there.  Instead, he touches the outline of wings again, a self-created memorial of sorts.  He closes his own vessel’s eyes for a moment, to focus on his truer senses.  Dispersing grace reverberates through him, and he knows that, for each time he does this, a part of him will always be mourning.

Angels aren’t supposed to mourn.

He stands.  “I would not be here with you if I didn’t believe that you were right in resisting the apocalypse, but he was only doing what he was told was necessary, and now he is extinguished forever.  To succeed, to win, many more innocents will die, angel and human alike, because if we fail, millions of mortals will fall.  The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

“This shouldn’t be easy,” snaps Dean, and he isn’t wrong.  Not wrong, but making things more difficult than they need to be, and they’re already bordering on impossible.

“You're a fighter, Dean, but you are not a soldier.  You need to understand that this isn’t a hunt, it’s a war, and war is won by any means necessary.”  He thinks that Dean is still trying to project anger, but Castiel can see the way the body slides towards fear.  “And I’ve watched this world for a very long time.  I’ve seen your wars.  Don’t blame this on my lack of humanity, because humanity is capable of slaughter on a scale unimaginable to Heaven.  Millions dead, often for nothing more than an empire’s glory or a monarch's greed.”  The frustrated noise he makes doesn’t even feel human, but animal, and how could he have come to that already?  “Perhaps if you'd been soldiers.  On those grounds, at least, we would understand each other." 

Dean stares, eyes narrowing, perhaps searching for something that Castiel doubts he’ll find.  “Nah,” he says eventually.  “I think the whole point here is that we suck at following orders.”  That’s not entirely true, but John Winchester is gone.  Dean shrugs, calm now, though Castiel can pinpoint neither when nor why that happened.  “It’s funny, though.  You guys acting high and mighty about humans being a bunch of primitive knuckleheads, and _that’s_ where we meet in the middle?” 

“I fail to see the humour." 

“Yeah,” he says, "you would.” 

Castiel reaches down to lift his brother’s blade off the cold concrete.  “I’m not certain how he found you.  There could be others.  You need to leave this town immediately.” 

“Dude, we’re in the middle of a hunt!  We can’t just bail–”   

Sam, thankfully, interrupts.  “We’ll call Bobby, see if he can find someone else to take over. C’mon, Dean, we were lucky Cas got here in time.  One less werewolf isn’t gonna do much good for anybody if the world ends.” 

“What, so you think we should just give up?” 

“I think there’s a fine line between brave and completely moronic, and we cross it pretty much all the time.  It’s one thing to go all kamikaze for a big play, but on principle?  We’re talking angels, man.  That’s not a one-on-one we can win.  We gotta go.” 

“Well, you seemed okay about a one-on-one with _Lilith_ , huh?” 

“And that worked out _super well_ for us, did it?" 

The argument drones on.  Leliel's sword is cool in Castiel's hand, and he feels the uncomfortable thrum that comes from holding another’s blade.  This is foolish, he knows.  Senseless.  He finds within himself some semblance of the voice that once led armies, and commands: “ _Stop it,_  both of you.”  The brothers abruptly fall silent amongst the echoes. 

Before Dean has a chance to open his mouth again, Castiel stalks over, right into the ‘personal space’ he seems to value so greatly.  “You have a lifetime of experience in battles where you’re significantly outclassed.  You’ve survived this long by recognizing the need for strategy and caution.”   He spins the weapon, grip outwards, point towards his vessel's heart.  He holds it out to Dean.  “Don’t be stupid.”  

“No promises,” says Dean, and takes it.  He’s looking at Sam when he mutters, “Thanks, Cas.” 

“You can thank me by trusting my advice." 

Dean’s shoulders sag.  “Yeah.  Fine.  Can’t say I’m into being a coward, but fine.  How ‘bout you?  Guess you gotta get back to God Quest '09, huh?  How’s that going?” 

“Poorly.  But I must continue to have faith." 

“Faith.  Right.”  Dean encouraged his search, Castiel knows.  This isn’t judgement, just bitter exhaustion. 

Sam loudly clears his throat, breaking a too-long silence.  “Thanks for the save, Cas.  As soon as we’ve done something about the body, we’ll head back to the motel and clear out.”  He fixes his brother with a hard gaze that telegraphs an argument played out a hundred times before, and Dean’s the first to look away. 

Castiel nods, and vanishes between dimensions before he has to untangle the ritual of a proper goodbye.  He feels more than hears Dean’s _sonofa– what are you, Batman?_ and Sam’s _dude, you oughta be used to that by now._

The space between worlds is bleeding, the fabric of creation distorted by his brother’s undoing.  Unlike a human corpse, this cannot be moved, buried, hidden.  This place will always be scarred as it grieves the death of light itself.  The world will always remember what he did. 

And all the humans see are dark and ragged wings.  Wings that can be washed away. 

He shifts his perception back to the physical plane in time to see Dean lift the small body oh so gently, as though trying not to wake the child.  It’s only a body.  The boy still lives on, just… not here.  All this anguish over an individual they’ve never before met, and whose journey continues elsewhere. 

Castiel gave himself to this, to them; humanity in all its arcane rules and irrational compassion.  It’s right, he tells himself.  These are his Father’s most precious creations, and this is where he owes his service, not to a Heaven that sees them only as pawns and savages.  But he is a being of breadth and age, and men view so narrowly.  The end of their world against the life of one monster.  The end of one child against the death of an ancient. 

There is meaning in it, he’s sure.  But he knows, with all the certainty his grace can muster, that he will never understand. 

If only he could understand.

 

***  
 

It’s dark in Bobby’s house.  Castiel knows both that he could probably sleep if he tried and that it would be in his best interests to do so, but the very idea of it awakens a queasy feeling in his gut.  That’s what mortality does, it sends emotions running wild through every system of the body, and the body is so small.

He feels a sudden sympathy for those struck blind by his true form, because even five senses are far too few.  What use is he, stumbling numbly, with little more than eyes and ears to guide him?  

Was any of this worth it?

There are footsteps down the hallway, and Castiel glances up in time to see a large shadow lope into the room.  “Cas!” Sam flinches back in surprise.  “You’re - you don’t need to sit in the dark, man.”  He fumbles for a lamp.  It’s not enough to light the entire room, but enough to resolve Sam from a silhouette into a worried face, heavy with exhaustion.

“You should be sleeping,” says Castiel.  He expects Sam to follow with _so should you_ , and is grateful when he doesn’t. 

“I’ve tried,” he says.  “I can’t.  I can’t stop thinking.”  Sam smiles, at odds with his words.  “I’m… I’m terrified, y’know?”

“You should be.”

“Yeah, that’s… that helps.”  That’s sarcasm, probably.  Sam shakes his head and settles on the arm of a chair.  “You think this is gonna work?  Honestly?”

“Not really,” says Castiel, and he doesn’t miss the desolate look sweeping over Sam’s features.  “But it’s the only option left to us, and you’ve surpassed my expectations before.” 

“That’s fair,” he sighs.  “I hate this, I hate that it’s come to this.  I hate failing over and over, I hate watching our options narrow down to nothing, I just…  I gotta believe that there’s some other way for this story to end, no matter what they keep telling us, y’know?  Angels have to ask permission for a reason, right?  We still have choices.” 

“I hope so,” Castiel says faintly. 

“Me too.”  They sit in silence for a while before Sam speaks again: “Hey, Cas?  Why’d you decide to throw in with us?” 

“I was informed, quite insistently, that it was the right thing to do.”  He can’t hide the resentment in his voice, though it’s not directed at anyone in particular.  Maybe God, or fate, or life itself. 

“Yeah, but… that’s not what I mean.  I know that what you did was a huge deal, probably way bigger than I could ever really understand.  And we’re grateful, me, Dean, even Bobby, I hope you know just how much, but.  Why?  You gave up everything.  What the hell could have possibly convinced you we’re worth it?”

“The truth,” he says, “and Dean.” 

“The truth?" 

“We were never trying to stop the apocalypse.  It was all for show.  They could have prevented the seals from breaking, they could have stopped you killing Lilith… I’ve come to believe that even the first seal would never have been broken if they hadn’t wanted it.  They could have sent an archangel into Hell.  Raphael or Michael could have crossed the pit in a fraction of the time it took us, but they didn’t send an archangel.  They sent my garrison.  They sent me.  I was always meant to fail.

“Heaven chose to end the world, and it was never our choice to make.  Our Father may have abandoned us, but that does not give them the right.  I know what I am.  I know my duty.”  There’s a small, sharp prickling in his eyes.  Tears, he realizes.  His vessel – his body is crying.  He’s crying.  It’s a natural biological response, he tells himself, a way to expel stress hormones, but that’s not how it feels.  It feels... well.  It feels like the world is ending.  “They told us it would be better, afterwards.  Heaven on Earth.  But if a man like Dean, who has seen the darkest this world has to offer, was willing to sacrifice anything to prevent that... who was I to give any less?" 

Sam offers a small smile that even Castiel can tell is forced.  “Well, we wouldn’t’ve got this far without you, that’s for sure.  I’m just sorry you got dragged into all this.  Dean and me, we never really had a choice.  If you’d just kept towing the company line–”   

“ _Don’t._ ”  The authority in his voice is unmistakable, and Sam snaps to attention in spite of himself.  “I found my will and I made my choice.  Perhaps I chose poorly, but the choice was mine alone.  Do _not_ take that from me." 

Sam nods, somewhat shaken.  “Yeah.  You’re right, sorry.”  Once more they fall into silence.  It feels like a long while before Sam adds, "Do you ever wish you hadn’t found out, though?  Just kept on going like you were?” 

Castiel should be offended, probably, but he has no doubt that Sam wonders the same - if this wasn’t his destiny, would he choose this, or peaceful ignorance?  Even if it meant the end of everything?  There’s a feeling that might have once been a dark ripple through the depths of his grace, and now manifests as a solid, heavy ache in his chest.  “It’s better to know.”  The words feel familiar, and he can’t place why.  He’s not used to forgetting. 

He sees Sam nod, start to stand, and sit again.  He opens his mouth minutely, and closes it again.   _Uncertainty,_ Castiel thinks, momentarily proud of his interpretation.   _Or fear?_

“Hey, uh, I didn’t want to ask, but… um…”  Sam’s wringing his hands, and Castiel wonders what he could have to say that would make him more nervous than he already is.  “If this works somehow, and by some miracle that happens without all of us ending up dead, could… could you keep an eye on Dean for me?  He’s just… he’s no good at being alone.  I’m pretty sure no matter what I tell him he’ll try something stupid to get me back, and I just… I need him to be okay.”  Whatever Sam sees when he meets Castiel’s eyes doesn’t seem to be the response he’s looking for, and he quickly glances away.  “Never mind.  I’m sure you’ll have bigger things to deal with.”

“No,” says Castiel.  “I’ll do it.  If it works.  If we survive.  I’ll do it.”  He tries to picture that world, one where Lucifer is caged and he and Dean both walk away.  He can’t.  That sort of imagination was never his strong suit.  It doesn’t make the promise any less sincere, but Sam’s smile speaks of greater gratitude than he deserves.

“I’m gonna... I dunno, try to sleep again, I guess.”  He stands, but doesn’t move.  Instead, he shifts from foot to foot and looks around a room he must have long since memorized, anywhere but at Castiel. “That’s stupid, right?  One way or another, this is pretty much my last night on Earth, at least without the devil in the pilot seat.  The _best case_ scenario here ends with me in Hell, with Lucifer, forever.  Isn't there be something I should be doing?”  He turns to Castiel as though he expects an answer. 

“You’ll need all the strength you have to fight Lucifer.  Rest is your best option.”  It’s probably not the right thing to say, but it’s the truth.

“Yeah, no, you’re right.”  Sam starts walking towards the doorway.  “Night, Cas.”  Two steps out of the room, and he turns back for a moment.  “And thanks, okay?  Thank you.”  His footfalls slowly trail away.

As much as he tries to believe in another outcome, Castiel feels certain that he, too, is about to die.  Last night on Earth, again.  Once, Dean had scoffed at his quiet contemplation, and dragged him out for what might have been a good time for a human and was mostly just confusing for an angel.  It’s a fond memory, regardless.  He’d understood camaraderie, but that kind of easy affection was entirely new.  There was a time when he’d wondered how humans could stand to live at all without every moment of their life infused with thunderous purpose.  Of all the lessons his waning grace had taught him, the value of pleasant, aimless moments was the only one he recalled without regret.

Now Dean’s asleep upstairs, and Castiel sits silently, waiting for the end.

He doesn’t fear death, exactly.  It’s this alien body.  It’s the quiet.  He wants to die as himself, and he knows that will never again be possible.  Perhaps that’s his punishment, he thinks, and it’s a fair one.

There are some things that a human mind can’t hold.  Castiel remembers each and every mortal language, the names of the prophets, and the sight of the first creatures clawing their way onto dry land, but he can’t remember the faces of his brothers.  He can’t remember his own true name.  

_I gave up everything, so I’ll die as nothing._   For the first time in many weeks, the urge for prayer kindles within him, though his Father has never seemed so far away.  What would he even pray for?  Aid, or absolution?  What do humans do when they face a mute cosmos with nothing but hope to hang on to?

He folds his hands, lowers his head, thinks simply:  _Please._

 

**2\. WHAT THE HAND DARE SEIZE THE FIRE?**

 

The transition is too sudden – from Lucifer's furious, unforgiving gaze into what should have been pain, perhaps, or oblivion.  Instead, a car.  The feeling is familiar: the road beneath him, barely cushioned by leather and metal and rubber.  It's not that listless half-stormy light of dead grass and doomed battle, but bright sun.  He raises his hand automatically, shading his eyes.  There's music.  He knows the song, he realizes.  Not by name, but by its familiar rhythm, and the way it slides so neatly into his memory.

Memory – yes.  The sun.  The road.  Even the smell, of gasoline and stale fast food, the fresh scent of forest drifting in through the cracked open window.  Castiel turns to his left, just slightly, already knowing what he will see, because he has lived this once before.

Dean, driving.  Is this a dream?  Has he ever dreamed before?  Why can't he remember?  This was–

They're driving to Maine.  Dean had insisted, shunning the practicality of flight for this slow, cramped, prison of a thing.    But it… it was nice.  It wasn’t in Castiel’s nature to rest when there was work to be done.  He could have just met Dean when he’d arrived.  He didn’t.  He sat in the car and watched Dean grin and sing too loud and stop to sit on the Impala’s hood to eat a burrito because _what am I gonna do, let you drive?_  Dean was more relaxed than he had ever been in Castiel’s presence, and though Castiel had observed this world for so long there was something charming in watching it go by bit by bit at the car’s slow, slow pace.

He knows where he is.  He knows it’s impossible, but he knows where he is.  

Since the beginning, he had known only wrath without anger, caution without fear, love without affection, and conviction without doubt.  Mortals are untidier, a mess of meat and chemicals shot through with soft-edged sparks of soul.  But here, he cannot blame the body that he so reluctantly claimed.  Here, he no longer knows what he is, only that this is emotion, and he cannot name it.

A shadow of Dean Winchester grins out on to the open stretch of highway, the sun lighting his face, his hands pounding the wheel in time to the too-loud music.  "I'm sorry," says Castiel, even knowing that this is not Dean, that he cannot hear.  The car's still moving when he shoves open the door and rolls free on to the hot pavement.

The Impala roars off towards some spectral vision of Maine, and in its wake, Castiel begins to walk, following the road.

 

***

 

It is a fascinating death.  Angels have, so far as they know, no afterlife.  This is without a doubt the part of Heaven set aside for the human dead, but Castiel, even without his grace, should have had no soul to claim.

Some part of the answer slides into place when he turns down a path and finds a cozy Christmas Eve.  The room is lit warmly by golden lights wrapped around a large tree, and a number of red and white candles set on side tables.  The scent of fresh baking and the low sound of choral music floats out of the kitchen.  The place makes something swell in a heart that isn’t his.

He slips out of Jimmy Novak, depositing him fondly, like a well-worn coat.  There is no confusion in the man's eyes, not even relief – Heaven is as much a place of forgetting as remembrance, lest eternity lead to madness.  Soon he may understand, but Castiel will be long gone by then.

In this memory, Claire is perhaps four years old, and she gazes up at her father with nothing short of worship.  Jimmy bends to pick up a book off the table –  _The Polar Express –_ and when he sits down next to her she snuggles into his side.  He winds one arm around her so that he can hold the book open with both hands and still keep his daughter close. 

Castiel is only mildly surprised to find himself still in Jimmy's form.  Two mortals died in that field, after all, though they wore the same face.  He moves slowly around the room, exploring bit by bit to the calming sounds of Jimmy’s narration.  The tree is decorated haphazardly, ornaments spread neatly around the top half and scattershot near the bottom where a child might be able to reach.  At the top sits an angel, as humans imagine them, white robe and big cartoonish halo and all.  Castiel reaches up to touch it, running his fingers along each of the plastic wings, though he’s not sure why he feels that compulsion.

He wants to tell Jimmy that he understands now, and how remorseful he is, but that apology would be for Castiel, not his vessel.  The best he can do for Jimmy is to leave him to his rest.  The man has more than earned it.

He knows soulmates when he sees them, and one day Amelia will join her husband here, but hopefully not too soon.  Assuming the world is still spinning, she deserves a long and happy life with her daughter.  Castiel has hurt them enough.

Through the hall and the kitchen is a back door.  He sees a moonlit backyard through the plate glass, but when he opens it, he’s met with daylight.  It’s a forest; sun is spilling down between the leaves of towering cedars.  The air is thick and damp, like the first few minutes after heavy rain.  He hears the rush of water, and finds a river to his right.

Strange.  He’s been here before, but not in this vessel.  He expected to find only memories formed after his grace began to recede, not something from so long ago.

Castiel spent very little time on Earth prior to the apocalypse.  This forest was from one of those brief visits, only his second time wearing a human body.  He remembers the way it struck him then, the scale of it.  To an angel, it all seemed so small.  He needed human eyes to truly appreciate the glory of this creation.  Even as a replica, the majesty stills him.

He walks down to the river and kneels at the muddy shore, letting cool water rush over his lax hands.  This is the next leg of his journey, but with no particular destination, a moment of rest won’t hurt.  He closes his eyes.  None of it’s real in the same way that Earth is real, but the wet smell of foliage and the distant calls of birds fool his senses well enough.  After a long existence of unwavering duty towards creation, this was once his first true moment of awe.  It was the greatest love he'd ever felt towards a father he’d never seen nor heard.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” he says to no one, as though God is actually listening.

He turns his gaze downstream.  The forest seems to go on forever, but he knows that won’t be the case.  He starts down along the bank, moving maybe a little slower than he could. Were there anyone to ask him, he’d never admit to enjoying the feeling of sun on his skin.

 

***

 

The trees thin out, cedar giving way to oak and pine.  The river narrows and runs dry until it’s a narrow dirt path out of a suburban woodlot.  Castiel emerges into a park, concrete paths crisscrossing between wide swathes of grass, park benches, and playground equipment.  The place is at once familiar and strange.  

It’s not just one park, but an amalgam, all the places where he’d sat and watched, spoken with Uriel, with Dean… places where he’d sat alone this past year, trying to remember why this world was worth saving. 

There are people everywhere – young couples, the elderly, mothers and so, so many children.  It feels like more of a recording than most memories one would find; no one would believe that they were real and alive.  They shift and flicker like a television between channels. 

He stands at the edge of a sandy pit and wonders how many of these half-remembered figments still live.  Perhaps they were killed in the archangels' battle. Perhaps they’re all now as dead as he is.  It’s an abstract thought, one without feeling. 

Then, out of nowhere: “Hey!  Castiel!” 

He flinches at the sudden voice, and whirls sideways towards the source.  His superiors?  Has he been found already?  But no, it’s a man, one he doesn’t recognize.  He’s skinny, sporting a sleeveless black shirt and one of the strangest hairstyles Castiel has ever seen, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.  “Damn,” he says.  “ _Damn_.  It really is you.  Hah!  I told ‘em there was nothin’ wrong with my readings.  You don’t doubt Dr. Badass.” 

Castiel takes a step backwards.  “I’m sorry, do I know you?”  The man doesn’t seem to be a threat, but it’s baffling all the same.  This is no memory, and that's certainly no angel.

"Naw, we never met, but some buddies of mine told me all about you.  Here, I’ll just – I’ll show you.”  He reaches out towards Castiel who steps back again, just out of his reach.  The man’s hand falls to his side for a moment before raising, palm forward, placating.  “I come in peace, compadre.”  This time Castiel allows the hand to come to rest on his shoulder, grip loose.

He drags Castiel over to a small wooden building meant to house two bathroom stalls.  “Check this out,” he says, before scrawling what appears to be an Enochian travelling sigil on one of the doors.  In spite of his speed, the placement of the lines is astonishingly precise.  It’s no surprise when he opens the door and steps through to a place that Castiel has never been. 

The lights are warm.  It smells like wood, spilled beer, old smoke.  There’s a pool table, chairs, and a small, squared-off bar.  It’s almost familiar.   

“This is…” he squints.  “This is the Roadhouse.”

“You know this place?  You never been here.”

“I’ve read about it,” he admits.  “There were, uh, books.”  As though that explains anything.  

The man makes a face.  “For real?  I thought Jo was just messin’ with me.  Wow.  Guess I’m famous.  Already a legend in my own time, so what’s bein’ a cult classic character, huh, man?"

“You’re Ash,” says Castiel, suddenly ashamed that he hadn’t realized sooner.  His mind feels foggy and slow.  “Sam and Dean told me you’d been travelling between Heavens.  How did you find me?” 

“I keep track’a any especially weird shit round here, just in case I need to bail.  My algorithms have you flagged as both a human and an angel, not much’ve one but enough to pull your name.  Never seen anything like that before.  Got curious.  Besides, friend of a friend, right?”  Ash ambles over to the bar and flips around a squat, blocky machine with a screen full of equations.  “I can normally get angel radio on this rig, but it’s been quiet for a bit.  Dunno if they figured out I was listenin’ in, or if it’s got something to do with the prize fight." 

“They… they likely would have silenced communications, just to be certain Lucifer wasn’t privy to any plans.  Heaven would not directly interfere in Michael and Lucifer’s battle, but no doubt they had contingencies." 

Ash nods enthusiastically.  “Makes sense.  I gotta start figuring out what else I can pick up ‘round here anyhow.  One of these days I’m gonna get 3G on this thing, just watch me.” 

It’s then that Castiel realizes there’s another person in the room with them.  He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns to see somebody leaning back against the edge of the pool table, arms crossed, eyes appraising.  Even fully human, a certain sense of sight never left him, a knowing.  Castiel has never laid mortal eyes on the woman before him, but he recognizes her all the same, and tenses at that recognition.  “Hello, Pamela,” he says.  “I’m-" 

“Castiel,” she answers.  “Ash warned me you’d be coming.  He figured I might want to get my feelings in order.”  She looks him up and down with the slightest smirk.  “I like you better like this than when you burned my eyes out.  Prefer a man with something to grab on to.”  She moves close, much closer than Dean would have ever allowed.  Close enough that her eyes (whole, undamaged, bright) loom large in his vision.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.  Then, it had only been a passing regret.  Time had taught him the weight of his acts.  “I tried to warn you, but–”  

“I didn’t listen.  Yeah.  I was pissed at you for a real long time, but I know that wasn’t on you.  Shit happens.  You’re a good guy, I get that.”

“You don’t know me,” he says sombrely, and her lazy grin falters.

“That’s true, but I know a couple ladies who do, and they’re definitely on Team Cas.  Said that angels didn’t give a shit about us, and you were the only one willing to stick your neck out for our side.”  She saunters over towards the bar and leans into a doorway.  “Hey, he’s here!” she calls.  “Ash was right!”  Pamela glances back over her shoulder.  “I’ll give you two a minute,” she says, and heads back through the door.

When Ellen Harvelle strolls out of the back room, Castiel experiences a moment of uncomplicated gratitude unlike any in his brief human experience.  He’d barely known the woman, a brief acquaintance even by human standards, yet the sight of her delighted face triggers a rush of heartfelt relief.  “Damn, and here I was thinkin’ Ash was finally losing it.  Hey, Cas, never expected to see you here."

He’s never quite understood the human need to embrace.  It’s such a strange gesture of closeness and there are too many possible meanings contained within it.  When Ellen claps her arms around him, though, it feels absolutely correct, and he finds himself smiling.  It seems like a long time before she lets go and grabs his shoulders, holding him at arms’ length.

Her expression turns cloudy.  "You mind telling me where you were when my daughter was laid-out bloody?  'Cause I gotta say, that one's had me wondering."

"I was trapped.  Tricked.  Lucifer had me.  I'm sorry.  I–"

"It's fine."  She waves a hand dismissively.  "Not holdin' a grudge.  Just wondering.  Sooner or later, being a hunter just doesn't end well.  Was hoping it'd be later for Jo, but...."  She's smiling again, and more relaxed than Castiel remembers her ever being. 

“Is she here?”

“Not at the moment.  Me, I’ve always been more of a homebody, but soon as Jo found out Ash knew how to go exploring…” she shrugs.  “Figures.  We’re _dead_ and I’ve still gotta worry about her running around on her own out there.  Anyhow, we haven’t tracked down her daddy yet.  Only a matter of time.  Maybe that’ll settle her down for a bit.  Ash seems pretty sure nobody’s gonna find us here, anyway, so I guess the worst that happens is that she gets dumped back in her own Heaven and we gotta go pick her up.” 

That’s not the worst consequence Castiel can think of, but he sees no sense in worrying her.  Death won’t have made Jo any less willful.  It would only cause anxiety over something Ellen couldn’t change.

She moves behind the bar and pours herself a tall glass of something.  “So.  How’s the end of the world going?” she asks.  Her tone is casual, but there’s no mistaking the white-knuckle tension in her hands.  If that were a real glass rather than a convenient construct, it might have cracked under the pressure.  “I know the thing with the Colt didn't work, so don't worry about breakin' that bad news. Ash has managed to get a general sense of how things’re going Earthside, but apparently it’s been just a big load of chaos for days now."

"By now it should be over.  In which way, I can’t say.  Sam said yes to Lucifer.  It was a calculated risk.  We had a plan to trap him, and it failed.”  Castiel shakes his head.  His nerves had settled since his death, but now the outcome of the battle is back at the forefront of his mind.  “We made one last stand.  I bought Dean some time alone with Lucifer.  That’s all I know.”

“Shiii-it.”  She stretches the word out by a number of syllables.  “Well.  You’d think I’d’ve learned my lesson about putting my money on Winchesters, but I guess that’s the only game in town right now.”

“As I said, it should be over.  Whatever’s happened has happened.”

“For what it’s worth,” calls Ash, “I’ve gotten pretty damn good at trackin’ dead Winchesters, and I ain’t seeing any sign of Dean on my radar.  That’s gotta be good, right?”

“Right,” agrees Castiel, as he tries not to think of the other manifold possibilities.  Dean kept alive somewhere for Lucifer to mock and torment.  Dean back in Hell.  Dean talking Michael into jumping out of Adam and into him in one last big, stupid gesture of self-sacrifice.  Dean in the grasp of a victorious but wrathful archangel.

“So not for nothin’, but what are you doing here?  Ash tried to tell me some stuff about you only being half an angel now, but that explains jack shit.”

“Not even half,” says Castiel.  “I died mortal.  I’d used up the last of my grace.  I still don’t entirely understand how I came to be in Heaven, but I suppose there’s very little precedence for what happened to me.”

“So when you say the last thing you did was buy Dean some time-"

“I assaulted Michael with a holy fire molotov cocktail.  Lucifer was unhappy with me.”  He frowns.  “I think I exploded.”

Ellen’s eyes go wide and then, to his shock, she bursts into raucous laughter.  He’s not sure he sees the humour, but her laugh brings a smile back to his face nonetheless.  “What a life, man.  You’re what, millions of years old?  Two years running with hunters, and that’s what you come to.  Bet none’ve you ever saw that one coming."

“That’s some epic shit!” adds Ash loudly, not looking up from his computer.

Ellen’s still chucking as she pours another glass and hands it to Castiel.  “Anyway,” she says, “I got no clue what Heaven looks like for a dead angel, but there’s a place for you here if you want it.  I’m sure Jo’d be happy to see you whenever she gets back.  This here is a home for hunters, and you’re as good as one in my books.  Besides, who knows if what’s gone on will spill up here.  For all we know you could be pretty helpful to have around.  I’m good with resting in peace, but if there’s a fight…”  There’s a shotgun hanging in a rack on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it before.  She pats it affectionately.  “Go down swinging the second time around, same as the first."

Castiel leans forward against the bar, his hands wrapped around a drink he has no intention of tasting.  There’s a part of him that wants to stay.  Who knows how long it will take his erstwhile superiors to notice that a former angel has mistakenly been allowed home?  Depending on how the battle below has gone, perhaps they'll have other priorities for a long while.  What's he even seeking?  The Garden?  There's nothing there, not for him.  And yet.

And yet.

"I have to keep moving," he tells Ellen, and she nods without protest, understanding.  Hunters, he realizes, are an awful lot like whatever it is he has become.  Soldiers, one and all, but without orders, commands, guidance… nothing but the driving feeling in their gut urging them onwards, because they can't NOT fight, not when it's all they are.  Ellen Harvelle has found rest of a sort, but she still keeps one eye on her gun.

“Where you headed, then?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.  “Just that I don’t belong here.”

Ellen squints at him.  “That some sort of angel thing, or just bad self-esteem talking?”

“It’s an… angel thing,” he says.   _Both,_  he thinks.  Who is he to remain here and enjoy the warmth and company of people who died because of him?  Whatever he deserves, it isn’t this.

“Just be careful, then.  If you happen to find yourself alive again, say hi to the boys for me, yeah?”

“I don’t see how I would.”

“Yeah, well, stranger things have happened.  Way stranger things.”  She leans across the bar and squeezes his hand.  She looks very much like a mother now, in a way he can’t possibly articulate.  “I hope you find whatever you’re looking for, Cas.  If you don’t, that door’s always open to you.  It’s been real good seeing you again.”

He squeezes back.  What a wonder.  He watched the Earth for eons, and thought he understood.  Nothing had prepared him for the simple, stubborn grace of human kindness.  “I’m not certain if I should say I hope to see you again.”

“Don’t hope for anything.  Just take it as it comes."  She releases his hand and pats it a couple of times before stepping back and downing half her drink in one impressive gulp.  “Take care of yourself.”

“And yourself as well.”

He’s moving back towards the door when Ash casually steps into his path.  “Hey, uh, not to shit all over my whole brand of ‘chill dude with a big fuckin’ ego’, but before you head out, d’you see any holes in our whole setup here?  I dunno how pissed the God squad’d be if they managed to crash this party, but I’m hopin’ we’re not gonna find out.” 

Castiel thinks of the travelling sigil, and inspects the bar for further warding.  He tries to reach out with what senses he has – even a human can sense protection magic if they know exactly what they’re looking for.  The wards are excellent, but incomplete.  While he doubts anyone in Heaven cares much about a few wayward souls, a motivated seeker _would_ find them eventually.  “Do you have paper?” 

“I have whatever I need, amigo.”  He reaches under the bar to grab a pen and a notepad that may or may not have existed a minute ago, and hands it to Castiel. 

The wards come easily to him.  The sigils and runes he draws, with a slow and careful hand, are intimately familiar.  It seems that the long ago memories, programmed into the core of the angel he was, remain.  It’s the past two years that’ve gone soft around the edges. 

Ash leans forward on his elbows as Castiel points to each sigil with the tip of the pen.  “All of you, keep this one on your person in some form at all times.  On paper or on a talisman is acceptable, but skin is preferable.  Perhaps locate the Heaven of a competent tattoo artist.  These ones should go on all doors into and out of this place, as well as anywhere else you intend to stay for any length of time.  They don’t need to be large, but they do need to be exact.  When Jo returns, make sure she can replicate them properly.” 

Ash nods enthusiastically.  “I get it, it’s a scrambler, that’s pretty sick.  Thanks, dude, I’ll get right on that.  You sure you gotta go?  I’ve been dyin' to chat with a native Enochian speaker.  It’s a hell of a second language.  Well, fifth, but who’s countin’." 

Castiel shakes his head.  “Apologies.  You have a remarkable grasp of the language, for a human.  I must admit, I’m impressed.” 

Ash is beaming.  “It’s all in capturing and interpreting the higher frequencies, am I right?  Never found any other folks who get that’s how you angle the signs." 

“Exactly.  You’ve done well here.  This should just give you an extra layer of protection." 

The man grins widely and claps a hand down on Castiel’s shoulder.  He’s pretty sure it’s meant to be an affectionate gesture; he’s seen the Winchesters do it before.  “I owe you one, man.  You sure I can’t help you with a shortcut to wherever?  I mean, you probably could figure that one out on your own, but it’s, like, the principle.” 

“No.  I don’t know where I’m going.  I suppose I’ll find the answer when I arrive.  Or I never will.  Or I’ll be captured.  It’s hard to say.”  Absently, he draws one of the sigils on his own wrist with the pen he’s yet to relinquish.  He hadn’t considered hiding.  He hadn’t considered much at all, other than the strange miracle of his continued existence. 

“Okay, that started out real zen and then got super dark.  You spend too long walkin’ the not-Earth, stop by every once in a while, huh?  I know you don’t know me from shit, but sooner or later your boys’ll end up back here, sure they’ll wanna see you.” 

For a moment, he tries to picture the bittersweet sight of Sam and Dean here, gone from the world that needs them but at peace, at that bar, laughing – and then he remembers. 

“Not Sam,” he grinds out, the words like sandpaper in his throat.  “Even if Lucifer is killed, I doubt he’ll end up here.  Lucifer would likely ensure Sam’s soul is incinerated alongside him out of spite alone." 

“Right,” says Ash, recoiling like he’s been struck.  All the light abruptly drains out of his expression.  “Right, man, forgot that.  Sorry." 

Castiel nods and moves past him, but stops with his hand pressed to the door.  He imagines for a moment that he can sense the shifting potential outside, as though he can actually see the fabric of Heaven rearranging itself to hold his shape.  He could once.  No more. 

Grief comes suddenly, a crashing wave that threatens to drown him beneath its weight.  The world has likely fallen, and he exiled himself for nothing.  He is a traitor to his brothers and sisters, he is no longer what he was, he can never go home.  Even if they didn’t fail, Sam is in Hell, Dean is dead or injured or alone…  Castiel’s fingers tighten against the expanse of wood, and he breathes deep and slow as he has seen humans do in moments of panic.   

“Hey, you doin' alright?” asks Ash.  Castiel takes one more deep breath and looks back.  Ash looks shaken, by his reminder of Sam, or his sudden breakdown, or both.  Even Ellen’s brow is knit in concern. 

“I’m fine,” says Castiel, pulling his face into something like a smile.  “Thank you for finding me.  It was good to meet you.”  He locks eyes with Ellen, and nods, and she nods back. 

He opens the door.  He still has no knack for goodbyes. 

His fingers brush the pen in his pocket as he steps out into the light. 

 

***

 

This road, he doesn’t recognize.  It looks like some sort of suburban street, but most of the houses are half-formed outlines that don’t stand up to more than a moment’s scrutiny.  Only one is truly solid and present.  It’s a small, ramshackle sort of thing, with a half-dead overgrown yard and a squat, black staircase leading up towards the porch.  The house… it _is_  familiar, but Castiel can’t quite place why.  It must be terrible, to spend a lifetime with only a human memory to guide you.  He can’t imagine the frustration. 

The moment he cracks the door, it all comes rushing back.  The prophet’s house.  He can’t think what memory might have led him here, though.  Nothing worthy of Heaven, certainly.

Castiel takes one careful step inside the door, and another, and shuts it gently behind him.  The place is cleaner and brighter than any time he’d seen it in life.  It’s cluttered, still, but there aren’t too many empty bottles and no thin sheen of dust on half the furniture.  Something is very wrong.  This is no memory.  A trap?  Once again, he wonders if he’s been found. 

“You can come in!” calls a voice from around the corner, and it’s a voice he recognizes.  He moves closer just to be certain, and yes, there he is at his desk, almost completely obscured by his computer and several piles of paper.

The prophet peeks past his monitor, grinning.  Definitely not a memory.  He's never seen this man so neatly groomed, nor this relaxed.  "Chuck?”

He shrugs.  "Ish.  I was Chuck, but Chuck was Chuck too.  It’s kinda like a dream, where you remember who you are but you can be this whole other person at the same time, and it’s not weird?  Not that you’ve got much experience with dreaming.  Peered into your share, though.”  He stands slowly from behind the desk, scratching at his beard.  “Gets boring, being God."

Something shifts, subtly, and suddenly Castiel _sees_.  He wonders how he could ever have not seen.  Of course, of course, of course this is his Father. 

If he had dared to imagine this confrontation, it would have been with anger, defiance, rage at His terrible abandonment.  Instead, he falls to his knees and bows his head.  It's a human form of worship, now the only one left to him.

"No, come on, don't do that.  You wanted to talk, right?  For a long time now.  Here's your chance."

There's a moment of conflict between the need for obedience and the need to make himself small, as though that could somehow hide his deeds from his Father's eyes. Castiel stands, inch by deliberate inch.  He’s shaking, he realizes.  Even now, much too human.  “Where have you been?"

“I mean, y’know.”  Chuck gestures around the room.  “Here.  Well, the real version of here.  Being Chuck.  That’s been the last few years, anyway.  Before that, wow, I’ve been all over.  I was a priest for a couple years, thought it’d be funny but it was actually kind of a drag.  Buddhist monk was better, really chill, lotta time to think, or not think, whatever.  I was a tailor in Korea like three times for some reason, kept leaving and a couple hundred years later I’d just miss it, y’know?  Weirdest thing.  Spent most of the renaissance in Florence, even hooked up with a Medici for a hot second, if you can believe it. 

"Man, what else.  Lots of travelling, proper travelling, lotta horses, lotta boats, definitely loving planes and cars, though I’ve got a real soft spot for trains.  Oh!  So this one time, I was a woman in this little village in Libya, I made bread mostly, anyhow, I ended up taking in this kid, kinda raised her.  Turns out parenthood is way easier when there’s actual precedent and your kids aren’t all-powerful, who knew?  I still visit her sometimes, up here.  Doesn’t know who I really am, that’d just make things weird. 

"I like being Chuck, though.  I shoulda tried writing sooner, I’m really _feeling_  it, y’know?  I just thought I’d sub myself in for a prophet to get good seats to this thing, but it’s actually been a pretty good time.  I mean, also kind of an anxious, alcoholic sort of time but that's just part of the fun if you really think about it.”  He shrugs again.  “That’s the Cliff Notes version.  You get the gist." 

Castiel can’t help but wonder if he’s being mocked somehow, but that’s not the impression he’s getting.  There’s no malice or judgement here, and can find no answer within himself for this God who is also very much a man.  He feels totally off balance, spinning, as though his heart is a compass and every direction is north.  “I looked for you,” he says, more quietly than he intends.  “Everywhere.  And all this time, you were…”

“I didn’t want to be found,” Chuck answers, suddenly gentle.  “You get that, right?”

“You could have told us.  All of us.  All these years, I thought I was serving you. I trusted my orders because I believed that they were your will, not that of a self-serving Heaven."  For one surprising moment the anger he'd expected flares, but it dies just as quickly. In its place lies an empty darkness, thick as smoke. "I suppose it doesn't matter. You left your instructions. Michael was just trying to be a good son, as I understand."  

"Okay, yeah, some of that's on me, but lemme be clear – that was a 'break glass in case of emergency' type thing, not 'get the apocalypse rolling the first chance you get'.”  

“You could have done something–”  

“And I did!  More than I have in years!  I promised it was hands off from now on, but I put Sam and Dean on that plane, didn’t I?  Brought them back from the dead more than once?  Brought _you_ back?" 

“Why did you?  Why me?” 

“Impulse?  I dunno.  I was right there, had one of those ‘oh right, I’m not actually just a terrified, neurotic novelist’ moments, and you surprised the hell out of me.  It seemed a shame to let you go so soon after you’d started to figure things out.  Kinda wanted to see where this thing was headed.  You totally flipping the script really caught me off guard." 

Mortal or otherwise, the bodies of the dead are little more than ideas; function is unnecessary.  So why can Castiel so clearly feel his breath catch in his throat and the angry palpitation of a heart he doesn’t need? It’s fear, he realizes.  Even here, human fear huddles deep in the body and pulls all manner of strings.  He has to force the wavering words out of his mouth.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “For all of it.  For doubting you.  For failing you.”

“No, man, you’ve done enough apologizing today.  You got nothing to be sorry for.  I brought you here to talk.  Just to talk.  Really, seriously, that’s it.”

“But I rebelled.”

“Yeah, you did.  And there’s a certain narrative symmetry to it, y’know?   _Lucifer_ rebelled because he couldn’t bear to love mankind.  Heaven mobilized to fight Lucifer’s apocalypse, _ostensibly_ to protect the world, but mostly ‘cause they were sick of humanity.  You heard how Zachariah talked.  Didn’t even realize the irony.  And _you_ rebelled because you loved humanity too much.  As far as I’m concerned, you were the only one paying attention." 

In the silence that follows sits the unspoken question, the one that Castiel is most afraid to ask.  “Did it work?” he says softly, unable to look anywhere but at his own trembling hands.  "Did we win?"

“Lucifer and Michael are in the Cage, along with their vessels.  Dean Winchester is alive.” 

“I…”  It worked.  They succeeded.  He can’t figure out how to make himself believe it.  He didn’t fall for nothing; he helped to save his Father’s creation.  And yet – “Sam." 

Chuck nods, finally serious.  “Yeah, sorry.  That kid didn’t deserve half the shit he got put through.  None of ‘em did.  But hey, maybe you can do something about it." 

“Me?  How could I…?" 

“Right, I nearly forgot.  I got something for you."  Castiel's Father steps gingerly behind the overcrowded desk, and begins rummaging through one drawer after another.  "It's in here somewhere, hang on..."  His face lights up with a sudden smile, a lopsided smirk far more appropriate on the face of Chuck Shurley, Prophet, than on the Creator Of All Things.  He emerges again, shuffling toward Castiel, with his closed hand outstretched.  "Take it," he says.  "It's yours."  He opens his fingers.

There in his palm is a shapeless mass of blue-white energy. It pulses excitedly as Castiel reaches towards it, surprised by his own childlike eagerness.  There’s no body to take in his grace, just his… essence, whatever it is he is now.  The echo of what he was.  So the tip of his finger makes contact with his grace and–

Castiel _unfolds_. 

An angel in its purest form is more verb than noun, shape inseparable from action.  Castiel is a crash of light, a high-frequency hum, electric motion pure in its intent.  He takes a moment to revel in all his restored senses, stretching wings-that-are-not-wings out to their limits, inconceivably large yet somehow still neatly held within this construct of a place.  Motion is light is colour is sound is music and all are _him,_ a crackling expression of holy will.  He sees a room, scattered papers and empty bottles, a tattered couch, a dirty rug, an ancient desk.  He feels the threads of creation thrumming beneath it, energy and mathematics and _ideas._

For the briefest moment, he perceives an impossibly bright light that cuts to the core of him with a sensation of _wholeness_  and _rightness_  that he has never before experienced, before it flickers, contracts, and there’s Chuck again.  He’s leaning against the front of the desk now, and hoists himself up to sit on the edge of it, heedless of all the paper debris beneath him and the empty mug that rolls to the floor.  Chuck folds his hands in his lap as he stares up at Castiel, smiling serenely.  “Yeah, there we go. That’s better."

_Thank you_ , says Castiel with his own, true voice, one that speaks not in words but in meaning.  It’s a single pure moment of communication that conveys gratitude and relief and adoration, _thank you for finding me_  and _thank you for saving me_ and _thank you for forgiving me._

“No big,” says Chuck.  “Just something that needs doing every once in a while.  It’s easier to back off when I know things’re in good hands, so nothing wrong with just… putting a piece back on the board sometimes.  Still free will, right?  You’re just around to use it.”  He grins, and his delight reverberates through the room, through Castiel.  “So I know you already kinda suspect, but yeah, I can’t really let you remember this whole conversation if you’re gonna head back.  Nothing personal, I just wanna keep under the radar.” 

Castiel is struck with a sudden sense of loss; despite his gratitude, having answers meant more than even the return of his grace.   _Then why?_ (Why show yourself, why speak to me, if I cannot be trusted forgive me.) 

“Like I said, nothing personal, you know full well that even the best-kept secret can be dragged out by someone who _really_  wants it, so.  Besides, just ‘cause you won’t remember anything specific, doesn’t mean these things aren’t a part of you, now.  Doesn’t mean you don’t know, deep down.”  One shoulder twitches in a sort of half-shrug.  “And maybe I’m being selfish.  Hey, I made all this, I got the right.  Sometimes it gets lonely, y’know?  It’s nice to chat with someone who gets it. 

“But hey!  If you’re not gonna remember, that means I can tell you a secret.  Been itching to share this one with somebody.”  He folds up his legs so he’s sitting crosslegged on the desk, and it seems so wrong to Castiel that his Father is looking _up_ at _him,_ and then he remembers that it’s all just human symbolism anyway, up and down, big and little.  Creation began as a single spark, infinitely small and infinitely bright. “I’m not the oldest thing there is, y’know.  Close to it, but not quite.  Before I was around, there was the Empty, and that had a consciousness of sorts – kind of a cranky, bitchy sort of consciousness but who’m I to judge – so there might have been something before that, real nothingness, who knows.  And Death, I think he’s about as old as I am, give or take, and there was… well, she’s not important.  Point is, even I got no idea where I came from, and don’t think I never wonder about that.  I’ve had a lot of time.  Time since there was no such thing as time, since I kinda got _that_ ball rolling.  Anyhow.  There’s something more to all this, underpinning all of it, and I can only guess at what it is.  I got a pretty good guess, though.  One I feel pretty good about.”   

Chuck leans forward slightly, grinning and _glowing_ , the smallest bit of that pure light eagerly pouring out around the edges of his human form.  It’s beautiful in a way Castiel did not know something could be beautiful.  “I think it’s _stories_ ,” he says.  “I think the universe is telling itself a story.  All of it.  Even me.  I think that we all have our choices, but the cracks in between, the rolls of the dice where even fate can’t intervene… that’s where the story hides.  D’you know how unlikely it was for you guys to succeed, even with me cheering you on?  But that was the best story!  That was the right way for it to go, so it did!”  He laughs, and his light laughs with him.  “Isn’t that _cool?_ " 

_How does it end?_ (the plan, creation, _my story)_

Chuck gestures towards nothing in particular.  "It's a choose-your-own-adventure sort of deal.  That's the point, man.  I know that's gotta hurt to hear, but it's not a world made for certainties, you know?"  He shrugs.  "Any writer'll tell you.  You can make up characters, whatever, but pretty soon, they'll get away from you.  If they’re being really honest, they’ll tell you that’s kinda the best part.”

He tilts his head to one side, appraising.  Castiel wonders about the senses of the Creator, what that gaze comprehends.  “I don’t see the future ‘cause there’s no one future, but I see a whole lot of the most probable paths, always in flux.  Whatever happens, these next few years… they’re not gonna be easy for you.  Some ways are, well, they’re horrific.  A few are heroic, triumphant.  Most are a whole lotta both.  You’re probably gonna fail a whole lot, and there’ll be consequences, huge ones, believe me.  But I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you were needed.  And I would’ve given you a choice, y’know.  To stay here and rest, or go back to being what you were.  I would have if I’d seen even one probability, just one, where you’d said you wanted to stay.”

Castiel thinks of Ellen and Ash and their bar, and for a moment some part of his consciousness drifts back towards it, just to catch a glimpse of those brilliant souls with his true sight.  The self he was could have been happy here, happy in a way that angels can never be.  It would never be his home, though, and he’s not sure the rest of Heaven is his home anymore, either.

Besides, there’s work to be done.

He’s not speaking, exactly, but it may not matter; he can’t hide anything from the one who made him.  Chuck laughs softly, and shakes his head.  “You don’t back down.  You don’t know how.  You try to give up sometimes, you _want_  to give up, but it’s just not who you are.  That’s not the angel in you either, that’s the _you_  in you.  You’re nothing special, Castiel.  This isn’t your destiny.  You never had one.  That’s what makes you remarkable." 

A deep warmth flows like whirlpools throughout Castiel’s outer borders.  He had never even considered that the denial of destiny could be worthy of praise. 

_Why are you telling me any of this?_ he asks, the question tinged with wonder and confusion in equal measure. 

"Millennia of philosophy and theology, and it's the storytellers that always got it right.  You need conflict.  Without conflict, there's no change.  Without change, there's no point.  Being was never meant to be still."

Conflict.  Castiel catalogues the innumerable years of his existence, and clearly sees the thread that runs through them.  For the first time in all those endless eons, he’s struck by the terrible truth of it. 

_We (angels) were made for violence,_ says Castiel, with a note of accusation.   _Ready for battle from the first moment of being. Even to walk the earth is to rip an innocent away from their life_

“Yeah, sorry about that.  I’ve made some mistakes, for sure.  I’m a creator - _the_ creator - and that’s all, like, that’s a lot, but there’s a limit.  I make, I don’t unmake.  If there’s a danger that can’t be let free, I make a prison.  If there’s a threat to fight, I make soldiers.  It was the beginning of _everything_ , y’know?  I had pretty much infinite power and the widest perspective, but I couldn’t have known where it was all gonna go.  I think it turned out okay, though, right?  There’s a lot of good out there." 

_But there’s so much (too much) pain (senseless, undeserved, random)_

“I tried to help for a long time.  You know I did.  You remember how it used to be.  Listen, you take the wide view of it all, and it stops being people, after a while.  It’s just patterns.  It’s an ant farm.  I couldn’t handle it anymore.  The more I tried to fix it, the more it got out of my hands.  So I trusted my children to own what I gave them, and took a shot at a narrower point of view.  I think it’s been good for me, I’ve definitely chilled out a bunch since the old days." 

_We (Heaven, Earth) need You, we need guidance_

“You had guidance!  You chose to ignore it!  Humanity at least had the whole not-knowing-what-was-true thing going, but you guys?  I walk away for just a couple millennia and suddenly everybody’s shit-talking humanity, archangels trying to lay claim to Earth; when I left I was already pretty disappointed, but wow did you all manage to exceed my expectations on that front.  You were supposed to take care of them.  That was the first order, rule number one, before anything else.  You fought for that!  Lucifer fell for that!  How could you forget so quickly?" 

Castiel considers this.   _We believed we were still following your will_

“Not all of you.” 

_They told us the orders were yours_

“You could have questioned them.” 

_We do not question_

“ _You_ did." 

And Castiel has no idea what to say. 

“Anyway,” Chuck sighs, “no point taking all that out on you.  You figured it out, even if none of the rest of ‘em did.”  He shakes his head.  “You oughta get going.  Go grab your new vessel.  Dean’s hurt pretty bad after that fight, and Bobby’s dead at the moment.  They could use you." 

His new vessel.  Of course.  Jimmy’s gone.  Most humans could hold an angel for a little while should the need arise, but not well enough to exercise the necessary level of power.  There are bloodlines bred to his frequency scattered throughout the world, but none who have been properly prepared. 

That leaves one option.   

_He begged me not to take her,_ says Castiel, conveying Jimmy’s desperation and the depths of his own guilt.  He hadn't understood then, not really, but the instinct to _protect_ feels too real to him now.  Claire is not just a thing to hold him.  Claire is a child.  Claire deserves a life.  Castiel pulses with uncertainty and something very near to shame, folding inwards, expecting reprimand.  To his surprise, the look on Chuck's all-too-human face is… pride.  For once, he can read it clearly.

"That's good.  Good development.  You're learning.  But I’m not gonna just put you back together, not this time.  Deus ex machina was good enough for the Greeks, but I think I’ve been leaning on it a little much this last year or two; it’s not really my style anymore.”  Chuck slides down off the desk, and starts sorting through a pile of papers.  “I’ve got this really great idea, though.  I think you’re gonna like this one.  Ah!”  Triumphantly, he holds up a thick wad of paper, and smacks it down onto the desk.

The book shines with purpose; it has the feel of the Gospels about it.  He probes at the narrative, and recognition dawns.  “Yeah,” laughs Chuck, “you know this one.  Parts of it, anyway.  The bits you were in, the bits Dean told you… he was way too freaked out to share the whole thing.  Didn’t want you to know about, well… you.”  Once more, Chuck tilts his head upwards towards the core of Castiel’s form.  “Whaddaya think?  Think Claire Novak will be okay for a quick rescue mission?"

The plan forms clearly before him, Chuck for once communicating in the angels’ true language rather than in human speech.  The map to his destination opens like a flower within the angel's perception.   _Father_ , says Castiel, and it contains a library of meaning, a hundred thousand human lifetimes worth of adoration, devotion, desperation, betrayal, hope, gratitude, and purpose.  He knows that once he leaves this place he forfeits his claim on this moment, and he wants to keep it as close as he can.   

“I know,” his Father says with a sad sort of half-smile, radiantly human.  “But it’s time for you to go now.  You know what you gotta do.  Or, well, y’know, it’s up to you.  That’s kind of the point.”  He raises one hand and flicks his wrist in a tiny half-wave that Castiel knows is a final goodbye.  “And you did good, kid, okay?  I know it was a lot, but you did good." 

 

**INTERMISSION**

 

Time, the angels know, does not flow in only one direction.  It is not a cord pulled taut between two points, but rather a tangle of interwoven threads, entwined within itself in an infinity of unknowable ways, a Gordian knot that sometimes must simply be _cut–_

 

**3\. WISH YOU WERE HERE**

 

Risa goes down first.  It’s not croats, not demons, but a spray of gunfire that rips through the tender flesh of her legs and sends her sprawling to the concrete.  She’s screaming _Cas_ , _run_ , but it’s not necessary, not now.  Though the truth of their mission remains unspoken, it hums between them all the same.  After all these years, Dean still believed he could lie to them, but they know.  They’re a distraction.  They’re buying time. 

Cas knows he’s going to die today, knows it with the burning certainty that he once reserved for such things as his family and his Father, since proved unworthy of that absolute devotion.  Death, at least, is easier.  There’s something rushing through him that he can’t put down to fatigue or fear or adrenaline or his usual cocktail of amphetamines.  It is, he realizes, relief.  Euphoria, even.  He’d forgotten what it was to have a simple purpose.  To know something for sure.  To _know_ , full stop.

They’d expected a horde of infected, but instead it’s demons, mostly, and at any rate, the machine guns are doing most of the work.  An angel would never have flinched at the bullets, would have incinerated the demons in a blaze of incandescent holy fire.  Cas throws himself prone to the ground and rolls, a bullet barely grazing his shoulder as he finds cover.  He’s bleeding a little, he thinks, but he barely feels anything but the rolling boil of his own heartbeat.  

He hears boots advancing unhurriedly; he’s the only one left, after all, and he spent his last stash of holy water about thirty seconds back. Maybe he can convince the demons to leave him alive for a bit, let ‘em have a crack at a former angel.  No doubt he took out some of their buddies back in the day, when he was still of any use.  Any time is worth it, whatever seconds he can squeeze out of their attention, focused on him and not on Dean.  He grips his gun in sweaty hands, takes a quick potshot around the corner with a cry of _Hey assholes, remember me?_ and ducks back.  He laughs and laughs and laughs, nearly breathless, and he’s sure that’s the only reason for the tears in his eyes.  They’re so close now.  This is it.  This is finally it.  This is–

He hardly has time to register a flicker of movement to his left, tiny fingers on his forehead, and the sound of wingbeats, before he is once more uncertain.

 

***

 

Cas recognizes the girl immediately.  Once, he'd even looked out from those cool, uncertain eyes.  She's older, though not by much, and certainly not the lanky teenager he knows she ought to be by now.  He stares a good long while before the truth of it sets in.  He's looking at an angel, and there's only one angel who could make a vessel out of Claire Novak. 

The angel Castiel is glaring down at him, at Cas, and it's so heart-rendingly unfair that the only thing he can do is laugh again.  The look of concern on the girl's young face is all too familiar, and he laughs harder, too drunk on the implications to attempt a coherent response.  "You're inebriated," she says.

"No, I..."  He giggles.  “Yeah.  A little."  Cas props himself up on his elbows.  There's a wall not far behind him, and he crawls back to lean against it, ignoring how muddy his clothes are becoming.  There's been rain here; a downpour.  The city where he'd fallen just moments before (and died, oh God, he should have died) had been bone dry.  Far away, then.  How far?

A blink, and Castiel is there beside him, her hand on his forehead, and clarity rushes in.  It's been too long since he's been properly sober, and he decides he doesn't like it.  "You're not from this timeline.  Something's shifted."  A pause.  "Dean?"

"Dean," agrees the angel.  There's a sombre pride behind the word, and Cas can almost remember what it's like to be _that_ Castiel, the one who hadn't given up.

"Is it over?" he asks.  "Did you win?"

"Yes."  No elaboration, and Cas asks for none.  There's only one way things could have come out that different, and he's not sure he wants to face a world where Dean Winchester fell into step with fate.  "No," says Castiel after a moment, "not like that.  We... found another way."  There's something in her eyes that Cas can't parse.  There are too many holes in the story.  There _was_ no other way.  He wants to call this just another bad trip, a fucked up hallucination, but the sky is too grey and the ground is too cold and he knows reality when he sees it.

Cas closes his eyes, breathes slowly, gathers himself.  He opens them to see Castiel still crouching quietly beside him, endlessly patient.  “I don’t understand,” he says.  “So there’s a better timeline out there, great.  Let this one rot.  Let it die.  Let _me_  die.”  There they are, all the things he tried to medicate away.  Everything he knew he couldn’t afford to let himself feel.  His chest is tight and he finds himself clutching at it, though he knows it’s not a truly physical pain.  “If this world continues then I don’t want to be in it, and if it fades out then none of this matters.  Why are you _here_?”  Castiel remains silent, glancing away.  Before she can speak, another thought hits him, one that might have been front and centre on any other day.  “Why are you here in _her_?” 

“That’s why we need to speak,” she says softly.  When she meets his eyes again, he suddenly understands why people once reacted to him the way they did.  That gaze sees too much.  He looks down, and she stands.

"You said you wouldn't take her.  You made a promise.  _We_ made a promise.” 

"There was no other vessel, not at short notice," says Castiel.  The angel is fresh in this body, flexing her small hands, holding herself as though she were far taller.  "I… hope this to be temporary.”

"Oh?  And what other options do you think're going to present themselves?”

Castiel's response doesn't come in words, but in silence - a long and even stare that lets perception dawn as it may.  Cas has a human body, Jimmy Novak's human body, but his grace is long gone, and who knows where Jimmy's made off to.  It's a mortal form of the correct bloodline, and currently - whatever it is that Cas has become - there's no angel in it.

The angel Castiel could not exercise the full extent of his power on Earth without a vessel - to travel not just across time, but across worlds and probabilities.  It seems, however, that she had simply borrowed Claire, to collect a truer, more willing host.

Cas smiles a manic, resigned smile, the face he's worn most since the end of the world.  It's something that he learned from Dean, even as that part of Dean fell away.  Laugh in the face of anything that has power over you.  Show it you're not afraid, even when you are.  Especially when you are.  Especially when it's the whole world that scares you.  "I'm a vessel," he says.  There are worse fates.  He wonders if Dean, the Dean of this time and place, has succeeded.  He wonders if it matters.  Cas was, he reminds himself, sent to die.

"If you wish to be."  There's a surprising edge to Castiel's voice.  It sounds very nearly like hope.

“And if I don’t?”  Castiel’s face falls. “I’m just… I’m tired."

“There’s a world,” says Castiel, “that still needs me.  Heaven will be chaos.  Hell will likely be a mad scramble for power ready to spill out into the human world.  I need to do whatever I can, and whatever your answer, Claire Novak goes home.  There are other vessels out there and I can find them with time, but this–”  Castiel gestures down at the man beneath her, dirt-stained clothes, aching body, hopeless heart and all.  Cas recognizes a look of pity on her face and it makes him want to vomit.  “I’ve been told that whatever of you remains will become one with me, and we’ll both forget.  It will be as if you never lived these years, and as if I never died.  I won’t have to take another human away from their family, and you will be yourself again.   _We_ will be ourselves again.” 

“Wait, you… you died?”

“It’s a complicated story.”  Castiel smiles a tiny smile, and gazes skyward.  “I found our Father.”

“Yeah?” says Cas.  “And how did that go?”  Words like that should probably hit heavier, but in the moment it’s all he can think to ask.

“Better than I probably deserve.”

“So you decided to head out into this broken timeline before it either wastes away or stabilizes into its own unreachable universe, and grab the body of your sad old self.  I should have known you didn’t come up with this stupid plan on your own.  I wouldn’t have, and… that’s it, isn’t it.”

“Do you really want it to end?” asks Castiel.  Her voice is quiet, and for the first time, she sounds like the child whose body she wears.  “My world developed differently, but we once stood at the same place, willing to do whatever it took.  I know what it is to feel my grace bleed away to nothing.  I’ve experienced human despair.”  Even separated by time and form, Cas feels he can understand himself well enough.  Castiel is telling the truth.  “Is this really all it takes for me to become someone who gives up?”

_All it takes_  she says, as though she’d fare much better – of course she wouldn’t, they’re one and the same.  This is what would have happened to her because it _is_  what happened.  

But there was that other Dean, the one from the past, who’d seen – something.  Whatever lessons he’d returned with, they’d been enough to save not only the world, but the faith of an angel.  Maybe that was the point.  All these years, all this suffering, was  _instructional._ A whole world falling to ruin, so that one man could learn his lesson. 

It’s a lot to contemplate, but it sounds like Zachariah.  Hell, it sounds like God. 

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.  Dying, forgetting, what’s the difference." 

Castiel smiles softly, and there’s something utterly alien about it.  It’s gentle.  Cas has been a lot of things, but never that.  “I’ve been informed that what comes next for us will not be easy.  I have also been informed that it’s not in our nature to surrender under any circumstances.  It would have been strange, to see you prove our Father wrong so quickly." 

Cas sighs, an endless exhale that leaves his lungs hollow.  “You’re right, of course.  That’s not a choice I… we… know how to make.  I suppose it was just nice to have the choice taken from me, for once.”  Castiel lays a hand on his shoulder, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think it was an attempt at comfort.  “Don’t you miss orders?  Knowing your purpose?  How has humanity done it all these years?  All this _choosing.”_ He spits it like a curse.   

“Would you go back?” 

“Of course I wouldn’t.  How could you even ask me that?” 

Castiel nods and then, faintly: “I miss it too." 

Not so different after all.  Perhaps time hasn’t scored such a line between these two selves as he’d thought. 

“Okay.”  Cas struggles to his feet, pushing himself up the wall.  “I suppose we ought to get this show on the road.”  He grunts as he forces himself to stand straight, now looking down on the angel he was.  She’s small, but she radiates power.  He’s surprised to find that he (his human body, just his body) is a little frightened of her. 

“What do you think will happen to this timeline?” he asks. 

“I can’t be certain, but I believe it’s unstable.  I doubt it will last much longer.” 

Cas chuckles, hollow.  No big loss.  A blessing, if anything.  Still…  

“Do you know what happened with our plan?  If Dean – this Dean – killed Lucifer?” 

Her hand goes to her mouth as Castiel considers.  It’s a very human gesture, one that it had taken him far longer to assume.  “No,” she says.  “The Colt cannot kill Lucifer.  We tried the same, not long after you and I… diverged, I suppose.  It had terrible consequences.  We lost two excellent hunters in the process.  I don’t know if you ever encountered Jo and Ellen Harvelle." 

He nods.  “They lasted another two years, here.  Croats got them, just like they get everybody sooner or later.”  At least, it was croats that got most of them. What just happened... _Dean is dead,_ he thinks, and he knows that he should feel something, especially as sober as he is, but he doesn't.  Everything since Castiel's arrival has felt apart from the rest of his reality. 

_But what would Dean want?_ "If there's any chance, however small, that this reality will continue… I need you to do something.  There’s a woman named Risa.  She fell near where you found me.  If you can save her, it would help a great deal.  Without Dean, the camp will need leadership.”   _Without Dean, they have no chance to win, but perhaps they can last a while longer._ There were still many who believed, despite everything, that every last scrap of life was worth holding on to. 

Castiel vanishes, leaving Cas alone with the phantom pain from the amputation of his entire self.  It aches, seeing her, but not for much longer.   _Become one_ , she’d said.  He won’t be a vessel.  He’ll be _himself_.  A better self.  One who hadn’t fallen nearly this far, back in a world where he can once more be useful. 

He’s not certain how much time passes, staring up at the blank expanse of an overcast sky, squishing his feet into the mud.  Eventually, Castiel returns, heralded by the sound of beating wings.   _A translation_ , he thinks.  It’s strange, to experience an angel through human senses. 

“It’s done,” she tells him.  “I explained that your mission had not succeeded, and that you would not be returning.  She took it well.” 

“She was a soldier, before all this began.  She’s stronger than most." 

“I wish I could do more,” says Castiel.  “Whatever may happen here, right now, this is real.  I wish I could save others.  You will have to be enough." 

She reaches out her small hand, and he takes it.  He wants to laugh again, but he can't, he's too tired, down to his core.  Bone tired, he'd heard it called.  Deeper than that.  Soul tired, or whatever he has, whatever he is now, if not a soul.  "It's a metaphor," he says, with just the slightest smile.  "You're saving yourself.  Chuck would like that.”  There was a point, somewhere between when his nascent humanity began to settle and when his hope began to wane, that the prophet had taught him about stories.

To his surprise, Castiel smiles in return.  "Yes," she says.  "I think he would."

 

 

**4\. TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW, AND TOMORROW**

 

"Cas?" asks Dean, squinting into the sun.  "Are you God?"

“That’s a nice complement," says Castiel, “but no.”  His grace hums in sync with his human heart and he thinks, _this is joy._

The memories are fading: two sets shoulder to shoulder, a ruined world and a lonely road.  A prophet and a father: _The universe is telling itself a story._ A dark cabin, a bright forest.

Sunlight, a car, a green-eyed man, and in those eyes a glint of light, and in that point of light is all creation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing this on and off since _2010_ , and since I caught up on the last 3.5 seasons and was in full SPN-mode I figured I’d push myself to finally finish it. (You think you’re a slow writer? Try 15,000 words in 8 years, kids. My only two speeds are ’NaNoWriMo’ and ‘literally forever’, and the former’s not for public consumption.)
> 
> Anyhow this is basically “I have a lot of Castiel headcanons” with a side of “I have some Chuck headcanons also,” because even though that section was started years before season 11 aired, it was finished well after. (I’m a total Chuck apologist for almost entirely fabricated reasons.) And for dessert, some headcanons about timelines and alternate universes, added after the whole other worlds thing started up, because if the show’s not gonna make sense of its own canon, somebody has to.
> 
> ...I'd just rather write dialogue than meta, okay??


End file.
